


oh, but we're absolute beginners

by alethea



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, M/M, Secrets, Slow Build, Supernatural Elements, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethea/pseuds/alethea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing much to offer, and nothing much at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, but we're absolute beginners

**Author's Note:**

> It's my personal Christmas miracle. Finished this morning between flights.
> 
> Many thanks to lsdme and ey_up for for listening and beta-reading even though they're not in the fandom <3  
> A big thank-you to jean_iris for hand-holding throughout.
> 
> Title and summary from David Bowie's Absolute Beginners

 

“You’re late.”

Patrick does not trip and nearly knock himself out with the window frame. He doesn’t. “I know--” he whispers, rubbing his hand against the side of his head. “What are you doing up?”

“You are aware that we do have a front door.”

“Mum had the wards strengthened last week.”

“You’re late.” She says with a frown and Patrick knows what she’s thinking, ward adjustments are expensive and they both know it hadn’t been easy for their parents to pay for the renewal.

“I’m sorry.”

Erica narrows her eyes at him. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Patrick waves her off and starts to undo the straps of his armour. “Nothing that some sleep can’t fix.”

Erica scoffs, a sound that Patrick is more than used to by now. “You’re late.”

“I know that.” Patrick mutters, slinging the plates that make up his chest guard on the floor at the foot of his bed. “You told me so. Three times now.”

Erica opens the door, looking back at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs. “Just tired.”

“Sleep.” She says, softer now. “I’ll wake you for breakfast.”

Patrick nods mutely at the door closing behind her. He takes off the rest of his armour, the movements all familiar and automatic, soothing in the way that is knowing he did his best tonight, out there by himself and coming back home like he promised.

He also promised his parents that he wouldn’t fail English this year, so when he has washed the grime from his body and feels sufficiently warm again, he sits down at his desk and starts reading.

Patrick doesn’t break his promises.

~

Erica’s driving because Patrick is too tired to focus on the road while Jacquie quizzes him on the Romanticization of Vampires in 19th century literature.

The snow’s coming in thick this morning and Patrick just wants to sleep.

There are moments when he’s regretting getting into the business so early but it wasn’t like there was a choice. Not for Patrick.

At least his family is supportive even though the entire your-son-is-a-mutant was sprung on them when he was twelve and stopped the car that was speeding towards Erica with his bare hands. He broke both his arms but Erica also wrote the biggest _BEST BIG BROTHER_ on both casts in bright blue letters. So there.

As it turned out, Patrick might be stronger and faster than the average human being but he has no advanced healing whatsoever which sucks a lot, and his mutation is only low-level anyway. Not that Patrick wants to have any more powers, he’s doing just fine.

But there wasn’t a choice; not when Abby came by for a visit two weeks later and showed Patrick what she could do. And maybe Patrick had been a bit jealous of her ability to make the air around her sparkle with electricity; he knows now that she’s a highly powerful mutant, able to manipulate on a subatomic level, and Patrick’s abilities vanish compared to hers. But it’s all good and Abby’s become a close friend over the years; living her life in a way Patrick wants to emulate because Abby is a genuinely good person, making the best of her situation. Although she said yes when Sharpy proposed, so--

“Pat?” Erica pokes his cheek gently. “We’re at school.”

“Ugh.”

“You ready?”

Patrick nods, wiping at his chin. “I hope so.” He turns to Jacquie. “Did I get anything right?”

“Not really.” She says, sounding apologetic. “We just let you sleep.”

“Thanks.” Patrick says, smiling at her. “Do you guys have everything?”

“Yep.” Erica tosses the keys at him. “See you later, okay?”

Patrick climbs behind the wheel, taking the car to the student parking lot. It’s still early so there’s nothing left to do but hurry back to the entrance - loaded with his own bag, Jessie’s clarinet case, Jacquie’s math text book, and the posters he made for the Pol Sci presentation - without slipping on the ice and falling on his face.

There are a only few students in the corridors, all of them complaining about the snow and the cold as if it’s something new. It’s _winter_. In _Hamburg_. And they didn’t spent their night outside either, staking out the sketchier parts of town by themselves. Patrick is pretty sure that the lady in the shitty 24-hour gas station he stops by out of habit to warm up thinks he’s roughing it.

He checks his phone as he walks, a message from Abby asking how the patrol went last night. He types out ‘ _good ofc a bit cold tho_ ’ and hits send before he can inquire about her health and if Sharpy is getting her the right brand of dill and honey pickles. He gets a smiley face in return and a ‘ _good luck with the test & presentation today!_’ right after.

Patrick’s the first in the classroom, taking his usual desk by the window in the second row when Sam walks in, his face half-hidden behind his study notes. He looks about as nervous as Patrick feels about the test.

There might also be a problem with their English teacher, who is possibly cursing them all but even Abby couldn’t tell when she came to see Patrick sing his final solo in the school choir concert on Samhain. Sharpy even made a sign but no one is allowed to mention it ever again.

Sam sinks down into the chair, giving Patrick a shaky smile. “You look dead on your feet. No sleep?”

“No.” Patrick says and it’s the truth. “Not a bit.”

“Can’t be that bad, right?” Sam asks, fidgeting with his pens. “I mean, it can’t be worse than the last one. Right?”

“Uh--” Patrick flinches because he absolutely sunk the last one, and his parents were about to take him off patrols until his grade was better. But Abby announced on that day that she was pregnant and there was no way Patrick wouldn’t step up. It’s his home-town, after all. Besides, with Buffalo getting the brunt of the transit traffic, Hamburg is a million years away from being New York or Toronto.

Sam groans. “You’re supposed to be the positive one of us!”

“Really?”

“Yes, we talked about this,” Sam says seriously, “it’s your turn this year.”

And yes, there might have been a pact after Patrick had shared a bottle of illicit vodka that Sharpy had given him, and thus couldn’t possibly be held accountable for anything he might have agreed on. And New Year resolutions weren’t meant to be held onto anyway. “No one sticks to New Year’s resolutions.”

“You’re a dick.”

Sam’s fist connects with the fresh bruise on Patrick’s arm and it takes all of his control to not cry out in pain. Patrick has to grit his teeth because _fuck_ it hurts. “You haven’t asked Julie out.”

“And you did?”

“I’m not interested in Julie,” Patrick says primly. “Which is lucky for you.”

“Right.” Sam rolls his eyes, “like you’re any better!”

He’s aiming for Patrick’s arm again but drops his hand onto the desk when Julie walks into the room; talking with Sarah and Bobby about their weekends. Sam, for whatever reason, just dunks his head onto the desk with an audible thud. Maybe he thinks he has to remind Julie that he mostly acts like a fumbling idiot around her.

And just as Patrick thinks this would be the end of this conversation - he does not like where it’s heading at all - Sam lifts his head enough to look at Patrick. “What about Toews then?”

Patrick shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Loser.”

“I thought that was your part for the year?”

Whatever Sam wants to say is lost because Mr. Marks enters the room and everything goes just a bit colder.

As expected, Patrick knows about twenty to thirty percent of the answers and the rest is wild guesswork and stabs in the dark. Sam’s muttering under his breath the entire time, too low to make out the words or to call attention to him, and it is not reassuring at all.

~

“I need this week to be over.” Sam says halfway through lunch, looking the very picture of misery.

Patrick makes a face, and asks, “Econ?”

“Bechstein did a quiz on the wards economy during the Third Civil War. And since I tried to at least get a C in English I didn’t even look at anything else over the weekend.” Sam says with a heavy sigh. “And it’s just Monday.”

“Yeah.”

“How did your presentation go?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“But it’s, like, your thing.” Sam says, pointing at Patrick with a limp fry. “You sure must be in full support of the new law. I know I would be, if I-- you know.”

“It’s an amendment to the existing law. And I said,” Patrick glares at him for good measure, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Who had the opposition?” Sam’s eyes widen when Patrick does something that gives him away. Which is nothing, Patrick has an excellent poker face. “It was Toews, wasn’t it?”

“I--” Patrick starts. “That’s got nothing--”

“It so does! For fuck’s sake, you’re so gone!” Sam crows but he doesn’t raise his voice.

Patrick looks to where Jonathan’s sitting anyway, just to make sure he didn’t accidentally overheard Sam being a douche. Of course Jonathan chooses that moment to laugh at something - probably dumb - Oshie says, and he’s just so. Sharpy says that he still has to grow into his face and teeth, whatever that means. Sharpy’s opinion is stupid. Sharpy is stupid. Jonathan’s still laughing. Oshie cannot be that funny.

“Hey, eyes to the front.” Sam says mockingly. “I can almost see the big red heart floating over your head.”

“Shut up.”

Sam does, thankfully, shut up. It’s only for a minute though, and then he’s complaining about Econ and English and Mondays. Patrick tries not to fall asleep while eating and nods when appropriate, he’s a good friend like that.

 

~&~

 

Whenever Patrick gets the opportunity, he sneaks into choir practice. He rarely manages to spare the time but he’s sure Cornelison doesn’t really mind, at least he never kicked Patrick out of the auditorium.

He takes a seat in the last row, dropping his bag and coat on the floor next to him. The sections are just warming up, goofing around and Patrick misses it so fiercely he can’t breathe for a second.

No regrets, Patrick swears to himself.

Cornelison calls them all to order and they start on the song selection for the spring concert, and Patrick knows they’re good but it also hurts that he was so easily replaced. But the new kid taking over his solos is all happy smiles while he sings, his voice clear and strong, and when they start on the third song Patrick _finally_ falls asleep.

~

“Hey.”

Patrick doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that it’s Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Come on.” He says when Patrick does open his eyes. “Cornelison wants to lock up.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Patrick mumbles, wiping at his chin to check for drool. “Sorry.”

Jonathan smiles softly in the semi-darkness. “Good to know our new program is so exciting.”

“The new kid-- Seguin, he sounds good.” Patrick says instead.

“He was the right choice.”

“He needs to work on his breathing. Otherwise he’ll fall out of pitch at the end of the chorus every time.”

Jonathan’s face goes blank. “It’s a tough song.”

“Sorry.” Patrick grits out, pulling on his coat. It’s not his right anymore but it’s hard to let go.

“You’re right though.” Jonathan holds up Patrick’s bag, and then asks, “any complaints about the rest of us?”

Patrick stares at him, not sure if he’s serious. “You’re only harmonizing.”

“It’s a tough song.” Jonathan repeats, sounding amused now. He pats Patrick on the shoulder once. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Patrick answers shakily and too quiet, following Jonathan out of the auditorium.

They’re walking down the hallway towards the exit in silence, and Patrick tries, really, to not look at Jonathan right next to him, and think about that if he’d reach out, he could link their fingers together. Jonathan has nice hands but Patrick’s not thinking about them or holding hands. That’d be dangerous. Not to mention stupid.

“You okay to drive?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says when he recovers, startled from his Jonathan-induced stupor, “yeah, sure.”

Thankfully his sisters have been lying in wait at the library and haul him off in a flurry of complaints about him being late, the girl sitting behind Jessie in Biology, what Erica thinks he should make for dinner tonight, and Patrick loves them.

When he turns around, Jonathan’s got that barely-there smile on his face again, and is still looking at him.

 

~&~

 

“You should consult with a warlock or witch.”

Patrick pauses mid-chew. “Ha?”

“About your theory.” Abby says, pointedly ignoring Patrick’s lack of manners. “Because the way you’re describing it, I’m sure that there’s at least some curse magic involved.”

“I can’t--” Patrick swallows at her frown, washing it down with watery grape juice. “I can’t do anything like that. It’s against the law.”

“Not if the amendment passes.”

“It won’t pass.”

Shooter shuffles over to his side and Patrick puts his fork down to pet him. They had this discussion countless times before and his research for his Pol Sci presentation really drove point home. “There’s too many people lobbying against it.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask.” Abby amends, smiling at him. “If you’d know, you could at least get some protection against it. If it’s a curse you’re dealing with.”

Patrick completely agrees with her but there’s just a small problem. “And you happen to have a witch on call?”

“I’m working on it.” She says, grinning wider. “Do you think that the Supreme Warlock of Montreal would suffice?”

“I thought we don’t want to liaise with people from the other side of the Falls?”

Abby shrugs. “We’re not asking local office for help either.”

“Yeah, no.” Patrick says, nodding before digging into his pasta again. “How do you plan on getting the Supreme Warlock of Montreal to help us?”

“Someone from Patrick’s hometown.” Abby says. “Their word goes a long way apparently.”

“Who does he know?” Patrick asks suspiciously, because this is Sharpy they’re talking about. He’s a professional bullshitter about eighty percent of the time. And as human as they come.

Abby raises her eyebrows at him. “Think.”

He needs a moment to remember where exactly Sharpy is from, and then all the lore Abby’s been trying to get him caught up on. Which is a lot, and Abby’s knowledge is limited to the Erie district on this side of the Falls. Of course there are some people one just knows about, no matter what. Like that set of brothers further West; gifted spellcasters, all of them, keeping their community shielded with powerful wards against pretty much everything--

“No, he doesn’t.” Patrick shakes his head. “He can’t. He’s-- he’s _normal_.”

“He does and we’re working on it.” Abby says, fixing him with a look that’s a bit frightening. “So, how’s your Jonathan?”

Patrick defends himself the only way he knows how and keeps shoveling pasta into his mouth.

~

Patrick bombs the English test.

But so does everyone else.

The rest of the week is not worth mentioning.

 

~&~

 

“We have to stop meeting like this, Peeks.”

Patrick growls lowly. “Just--”

Sharpy’s grin vanishes, and he’s carefully putting his fingers against Patrick’s ribs. “They’re not broken, so that’s good.”

“Yeah.” Patrick gasps because breathing hurts. Jumping from that wall to escape the spell thrown at him seems stupid now but he’ll take a few cuts and bruises over a malicious spell that had been glowing a dark purple any day. “But? I feel there’s a but coming.”

“But until it’s healed, it’ll be painful.”

“I figured.”

Sharpy takes out several tubes and bottles from the emergency kit next to him. “Pay attention, I’m only explaining this once.”

Patrick blinks a few times, trying to shake off the exhaustion. “Go on.”

“This is the antiseptic one, apply it sparingly on the open cuts. After you washed them, do not pick at them or they’ll scar.” He puts a blue tube in Patrick’s open hand, and continues, waving a similarly blue tube in front of Patrick’s face. “This goes onto the stitches, also sparingly.”

“I know.” Patrick mumbles. He’s done this before. “Any painkillers?”

“One every six to eight hours, always with something solid or they’ll make you nauseous.”

Which is Sharpy for ‘you will puke your guts out all over the kitchen floor otherwise’.

Sharpy shakes the bottle at him. “I counted them out, so don’t even think of selling them to your buddies.”

“My _buddies_? What the fuck?” Patrick spits out. “You’ve met Sam, right?”

“I don’t know what you crazy kids get up to.”

“You really think I have time to start dealing drugs on the side?”

“There’s a market for everything.” Sharpy replies with a shrug, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. “Now keep still while I stitch that cut up.”

 

Patrick’s having trouble keeping his eyes open; the back of the ambulance is warm and he was allowed half a painkiller after eating a crushed energy bar under Sharpy’s watchful eyes. His colleague, a woman called Maisy who Patrick hadn’t seen before, looked at him the same way the lady from the gas station did. But she returned with three take-out cups of tea and didn’t say anything when she saw the healing bruises on Patrick’s body.

Sharpy had offered to drive him home as soon as his shift was over, so Patrick only calls his Mum to reassure her that he is fine and will be back soon. Which is the exact point when Sharpy takes the phone from him, telling his Mum in what state exactly he had found her son in, and then says that Patrick would bring the best pastry for breakfast before hanging up.

“You’re an asshole.” Patrick says with feeling. “Did you have to do that?”

“Yes, of course I did.” Sharpy replies with a smile. “Someone has to. Now go and warm the car up.”

Sharpy’s car is a shitty Corolla with more dents than a golf ball; but Patrick knows how to wrangle the doors open in the winter, and that soothing tones coax the engine to life rather than frustrated shouting. It’s extremely difficult to move himself into a bearable position in the passenger seat and there’s no way that he’ll be able to scratch the ice from the windows.

When Sharpy finally exits the station and heads over the parking lot, the ice is gone from the windshield and Patrick’s close to falling asleep again. The rush of cold air wakes him instantly though and he’s glad that Sharpy doesn’t mess around just to piss him off like he usually would.

“Ready to go?”

Patrick huffs and flinches. Damn his ribs. “Sure, I love it when my family yells at me first thing in the morning.”

“That’s why you are bringing food.”

“Because they can’t shout at me when they’re busy eating?”

Sharpy laughs softly, idling at the parking lot exit. “You know I only told your Mum because I love you, right?”

Patrick settles for a heavy sigh. Sharpy only loves Abby, their ridiculous dog, and making other people’s lives miserable, Patrick’s in particular. “Whatever.”

“Now,” Sharpy says, turning left onto the street, “to First Line.”

 

Patrick’s too tired and high on the good painkillers to realize what exactly that means until they pull onto the diner’s small parking lot just as the sign above the door flickers to life. “Why are you doing this?”

“They have the best bagels.”

They also have Jonathan manning the till on weekends and sometimes even in the mornings before school. Of course Sharpy knows that. It’s also Abby’s favourite place to grab breakfast after a weekend patrol, and she was right there when Patrick’s tiny crush on Jonathan developed into something that could possibly be seen from space.

“You alright there, Peeks?”

“Why?” Patrick snarls at him, watching as Jonathan draws the shutters up. “Why are you doing this? Most of the people from school already think I’m a nut job. This,” he gestures at the bruise on his jaw that’s throbbing nicely whenever he speaks, “is not going to help any.”

Sharpy ignores him and exits the car; walking around it to open the passenger door and help Patrick climb out of his seat. “‘Morning Toews!” He shouts, just as Patrick nearly doubles over from pain. Of course he would.

“‘Morning.” Jonathan replies, still managing to sound somewhat cheerful even though Patrick knows how much he hates mornings. His eyes linger on Patrick’s face for a moment but he doesn’t say anything, just holds the door open for them before he heads behind the counter to put on the dark green apron. “You’re early. First pot will be ready in few. The usual for you?”

“Not today. A coffee and a tea for here,” Sharpy browses over the Daily Specials board. “We’ll take one family breakfast box and a small one, both takeaway and with extra bagels.”

“Anything else?” Jonathan asks, fingers pausing over the keys of the till.

“Oh,” Sharpy perks up, “you had some sort of lemony thing a few weeks back that I never got to taste because my lovely pregnant wife threatened me with bodily harm if I took anything away from her.”

If he wouldn’t sound so happy about it, Patrick would kick him. In the face.

“Uh,” Jonathan says, eyeing at Sharpy warily. “I think you mean the lemon tarte tatin. I can ask when Maman plans on making it again?”

“Sure, thanks.” Sharpy says, paying for their purchases and steering Patrick to the corner booth after. Thankfully he waits until Jonathan vanishes into the kitchen before he starts talking again. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“What are you even talking about?” Patrick knows he sounds desperate. He’s this close to tearing his hair out.

“You should really just ask him out.” Sharpy replies, missing the point entirely. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The worst--”

“I don’t think he’d say no. And he wouldn’t laugh in your face when he’s not interested either.” Sharpy studies him for a few seconds. “Are you afraid what’ll happen if he says yes?”

“No! I--” Patrick bites his bottom lip because Jonathan’s heading towards their table.

“There you go.” He says, setting two mugs down carefully in front of them. “Maman says that we can give you a call when we’ll have lemon tarte tatin again, and she’ll reserve one for you.”

“Brilliant, thanks.”

“The boxes will be ready for you when you leave.” Jonathan points over his shoulder. “I’ll be up front, just call me when you need anything.”

Patrick watches him leave and turns to his tea; avoiding to look at Sharpy because he knows that he’ll be grinning like there’s no better entertainment than Patrick’s non-existent love life.

“So,” Sharpy takes sip from his coffee. “What happens if he says yes?”

It’s futile, Patrick knows. He tries anyway. “We’re not talking about this.”

 

The door opens and closes, and slowly the booths and tables fill up with the familiar faces of the First Line’s early morning clientele - watchers, curse breakers, firefighters, nurses, EMTs - and Sharpy knows most of them and is sufficiently distracted from bothering Patrick any further.

Jonathan stops by their table with two pots to refill their mugs when Sharpy’s talking over the backrest of their booth with three curse breakers who all sport identical black eyes.

“Do you need anything else?”

Patrick shakes his head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Sure.” Jonathan gestures at Patrick’s jaw with the tea pot. “I could get you some ice for that--”

“It’s fine, really.” Patrick says, a little too sharp, and he tries to make up for it with a smile. “Thanks, Jonathan.”

Jonathan nods quickly and moves on to the next table.

Patrick drinks his tea and burns his tongue. He probably deserves it.

 

~&~

 

Shaw’s glaring, arms folded in front of him, when Patrick pushes through the door, a gust of snow following him inside. It’s too early to be awake and out in this weather on a Saturday for anyone with something resembling common sense but well, here they are.

Though it is a serious upgrade to Shaw’s last ‘humble abode’, and the surrounding flats do look lived in at least.

“I know!” Patrick shouts, shaking the snow from his head. “I’m late.”

Shaw shrugs. “You owe me food.”

Patrick groans. “Poor student here.”

“Unemployable, mostly homeless shapeshifter.” Shaw retorts, no malice in his voice.

He’s a young guy today; about Patrick’s age, maybe younger, scrappy and tired looking. Patrick knows that this doesn’t bode well for him because Shaw’s a menace whenever he’s smaller, and Patrick never made the mistake of underestimating her or him again.

The room is bare, a duffel and a rolled-up mattress shoved into the corner by the window, and freezing cold.

In front of what makes up Shaw’s life and lying on a blanket is Rush, Shaw’s massive Rottweiler mix. If anyone would ask Patrick what she’s mixed with he’d say hellhound, because Rush is vicious on her best day, but thankfully mostly ignorant towards Patrick. Shaw’s adores her and talks to her as if she’s the world’s sweetest puppy. Patrick walks over to her anyway, letting her sniff at his hand before giving the top of her head a little scratch.

“How have you been?” Patrick asks as he takes off his coat and boots, slipping his trainers on.

“Around.” Shaw says, shrugging again. He looks gaunt; making the scars on his face that are always there, no matter what shape he takes, even more pronounced. “You know how it is. Could be worse.”

Which, okay, that is not reassuring at all. Patrick does a quick mental check on how much money he has on his person and yeah, there should be enough to even get some groceries for Shaw.

Shaw makes him rope skipping to warm up. “Seen Savvy lately?”

Patrick shakes his head, careful not to lose his rhythm. “Haven’t been in in a while. You?”

“Headed out of town for a bit.” Shaw says, stretching on the concrete floor. “He didn’t like that.”

“I bet.” Patrick grins, remembering the call from Savvy two weeks after Shaw had vanished without a word. Patrick knew to expect that, and Shaw has always returned so far. Savvy doesn’t find it amusing though, and threatens to hand over Shaw’s file - and Patrick’s just because - to another caseworker every single time.

“And I even sent him a postcard.”

“Why didn’t I get one?”

Shaw somehow manages to shrug while he’s folded in half. “Didn’t know you’d want one.”

“Duh.” Patrick rolls his eyes at him. “Where did you go?”

“West.” Shaw offers, “away from here.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the mountains.” Patrick says because he knows the chances of him going anywhere are minus fifty or something. Shaw’s been all over the place and never tells him anything about it. “Did you see the mountains?”

“I didn’t go that far.” Shaw says after a long pause, shaking his head. “Nothing worth staying for.”

Patrick nods, and thinks he understands at least a little what Shaw’s talking about.

~

They end up at First Line just as the lunch crowd clears out.

Patrick feels like he moving too slowly through cold water, his body sluggish from training. They worked on his speed and endurance today; and though Shaw had shouted most of the time, he had offered Patrick a hand up when he knocked him down the final time.

Their booth at the far end is empty and Patrick slumps onto the bench with a sigh of relief.

Shaw’s still at the counter, eyes fixed on the cake display, and Patrick resolves to being broke for the remainder of the month.

“So,” Shaw prompts when he joins Patrick, snagging the menu from the table. “How’s school?”

It’s a softball question if there ever was one, and Patrick knows an out when he’s given one. “My English teacher might be cursing us.”

“How do you plan on getting rid of it?” Shaw doesn’t even look away from the menu, eyes running over the breakfast section in the front. “You’re not able to detect any of them, at least until your ribs are healed.” Shaw says as he turns the menu over. “Which you should have told me about, you dumb fuck.”

Patrick closes his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Alright, sorry about the wait.” Bollig says when he arrives at their table, fumbling with the notepad. “We’re a bit short-staffed today.”

“Uh, hi.” Patrick looks around but yeah, he can’t see Jonathan anywhere. Or David for that matter. “Everything alright?”

Bollig rolls his eyes. “Detention.”

Patrick stares at him. “What!? Both of them?”

“Don’t ask me, I have to get back to the kitchen.” Bollig looks at Patrick, squinting for a second, “waffles with a side of bacon and hashbrowns for you. Maybe pie later if we have chocolate. Which, by the way, we do.”

“Yes to all of that.”

He turns to Shaw then, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before so I have no idea what you might order.”

“I’ll take a stack of pancakes, three eggs over easy, two sausages, and a fruit cup.” Shaw says without pausing for breath. “And I’m Andrew.”

“Welcome to First Line, then.” Bollig says, scribbling it all down quickly. “Brandon, nice to have you here.”

“I hope you’re as good as Patrick says you are.”

Bollig grins. “We have a reputation to uphold, I see.”

Patrick’s eyes keep jumping from Shaw’s to Bollig’s face. And no, he is _not_ imagining the innuendo here.

“Alright, I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As soon as Bollig is out of earshot, Patrick leans over the table, hissing. “What the fuck was that?”

Shaw takes a napkin out of the dispenser and starts shredding it. “What?”

“Your name’s Andrew?!”

Eventually Shaw shrugs. “It could be.”

“Forget it.” Patrick sits back, and takes a few deep breaths. He is not getting into a fight with Shaw about shapeshifters and their incomprehensible rites and traditions. Last year’s Pol Sci class was confusing enough on that topic, and Patrick doesn’t want a repeat of that particular argument in this lifetime or the next. He knows better than to ask Shaw for straight answers anyway. “Andrew? Your name really is Andrew?”

“It could be Jonathan.”

Patrick narrows his eyes at him. “Now you’re just trying to piss me off.”

“Is it working?”

Bollig appears as if someone who cares about Patrick’s nerves summoned him, carrying two mugs and the coffee pot. “I’m just going to assume you’ll be taking coffee because I forgot to ask.”

“Coffee’s fine.” Patrick says.

Bollig flinches. “Right, you prefer tea. Sorry.”

“Coffee’s fine, really.”

“No, it’s not.” Bollig says. “Let me just check where Jonathan keeps your special brew.”

“I don’t have a special--”

“I’ll be right back.” Bollig snatches Patrick’s mug away from him. “Let me tell you, I’m so happy when I can just stay in the kitchen.”

And then he’s gone again, and Shaw starts laughing silently.

“I don’t have a special brew.”

Shaw just shakes his head. “Pathetic.”

~

Despite his best efforts Patrick doesn’t get a word out of his sisters. And they must know something, they usually do and Erica’s on the student council, so she must know. But they all remain silent whenever Patrick tries to talk about whatever happened on Friday.

“You’ll get mad.” Jacquie offers after much coaxing and promises of contraband cookies. “And then you’ll get detention too and--”

“What?” Patrick asks because _what?_ Jacquie knows just as well as he does that detention is not a thing Patrick can afford, not with everything going on his permanent record. “Why would I get detention?”

“You won’t because I won’t tell you.” Jacquie says, her tone a scary replication of their mum’s, the one that brokers no argument.

“But--”

“Stop asking me.”

“Fine,” Patrick huffs and leaves. There’s homework waiting for him anyway, and the amount of studying he has to do if he wants to survive the next week is nothing short of terrifying.

Patrick does the only logical thing when he gets into his room, and falls asleep.

 

~&~

 

Sam’s already waiting for him when Patrick gets to English. And the look on his face is not reassuring. For one scary second Patrick thinks that they’re writing a test he completely forgot about.

“Hey,” Patrick says, trying to undo the tangle of his scarf and the strap of his bag have gotten into. “Everything alright?”

Sam nods. “I’m going to ask Julie out today. So that means--”

“No!” Patrick snaps because. Because Sam can’t do this. Sam can’t expect him to uphold his end of the deal. Not today. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Uh--”

“Kane!”

Patrick whirls around to see Oshie and O’Marra standing in the doorway. _What the fuck?_ “Yeah?”

Instead of answering the two of them stick their heads together and start whispering. Patrick looks at Sam for an explanation but he seems to be just as mystified. And it’s only Monday.

“Nothing--” O’Marra says.

“It’s about choir--” Oshie shouts over him, glaring at O’Marra. “Ryan!”

Patrick huffs. “What is this?”

Oshie nudges O’Marra then, grinning his stupid grin. “Nothing.”

Patrick loathes them an infinite amount more when Jonathan appears behind them, putting his hands on their shoulders. He’s got a black eye that looks like he’s wearing eyeliner and his lip is swollen too, a tiny cut over it, still stark against his skin. His tie is still a bit too loose and the collar of his shirt is rumpled and sticking up on the left side.

Patrick is vaguely aware of Jonathan talking, something about being late for their Physics class and--

“See you in Pol Sci.” Jonathan says, looking at him and he’s smiling, pulling Oshie and O’Marra along with him.

“Yeah.”

Sam clears his throat.

“Yeah.” Patrick repeats. “What?”

“Exactly.”

Patrick sits down. “Sam?”

Sam pulls his chair closer to Patrick’s desk, leaning in. “You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“The Physics lab is at the other end of this school. Oshie and O’Marra had no reason to be here.”

Patrick shrugs helplessly. “How am I supposed to know what’s going in their heads.”

“And then Toews looks like he got the shit kicked out of him--”

“He and his brother were in detention on Saturday,” Patrick says. “First Line’s cook, Bollig, told me when I went there with Shaw after training.”

Sam nods like that makes perfect sense. “Now you know why.”

“No, I don’t!” Patrick mutters, moving to get his notes and book out of his bag so he can avoid looking at Sam. “Jacquie wouldn’t tell me.”

“Oh.” Sam says. “So you don’t--”

“Nobody’s telling me--” Patrick snaps his mouth shut when Mr. Marks walks inside the room, closing the door behind him just as the bell rings.

Halfway through the lesson a piece of paper lands on the page Patrick’s reading. He hides it in the palm of his hand quickly, glaring at Sam. He’s asking for trouble with passing notes in English. He should just stand up and declare his hate for Second Civil War poetry, it’d be just as effective. Patrick goes back to reading the assigned paragraphs, the paper burning against his skin.

When Mr. Marks turns around to write something on the board, pausing to explain while he writes Patrick takes his chance and unfolds the paper.

_Toews jumped Sawley_

Patrick meets Sam’s eyes, shrugging because what the hell is that supposed to tell him. He knows it was Sawley because he’s the only other guy in the entire school with a bruise on his cheek. Not to mention that Sawley’s a jerk most of the time.

Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to his own notes.

~

By the time lunch rolls around Patrick feels close to tears.

He’s alone at the table in the far corner and waiting for Sam to show up, taking the occasional stab at the mac’n’cheese on his plate.

“What’s with you?” Sam asks as he sits down, smile vanishing. “It’s mac’n’cheese Monday. The special once a month holiday.”

Patrick shrugs once, not answering. It’s stupid, he knows that. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay. What happened?”

“Just--” Patrick waves his hand around, but he carries on, “just. I don’t know. We had this discussion about the amendment. And I have to declare myself this November if it doesn’t pass and I can’t even vote on it and--”

“What did they say?”

Patrick shakes his head, “you know, the usual stuff.”

Sam’s face does this thing sometimes, when he gets really worried, and he tries to smile reassuringly but his eyes are just sad. He’s doing it right now and it’s not helping Patrick at all.

“They’re all idiots.”

“I know.” Patrick huffs. “I know that. But--”

“Yeah.” Sam says, picking up his fork. “I know.”

 

~&~

 

On Wednesday Patrick doesn’t say anything during their Pol Sci discussion. He tries not to listen either.

None of these people understand what it means; having to declare yourself. They just don’t get it. Hamburg doesn’t have much of a mutant community as it is, it’s Abby and him after Mrs. Franklin died two years ago. There’s no community for anyone here; that’s in New York or Toronto.

So Patrick doesn’t say anything, digging his nails into his palms until he can’t hear them anymore.

~

The auditorium is empty when Patrick sneaks inside, just hoping for an hour of peace.

Well, mostly empty. On the right corner of the stage, seated in a circle are Jonathan, Oshie and O’Marra. Both Jonathan and O’Marra have guitars on their laps while Oshie shuffles through a stack of papers in front of him.

Patrick is about to turn around and leave because he doesn’t need to be here; he has homework to do, and they need to head to the grocery store anyway before they go home tonight.

“Hey, Patrick.” Jonathan calls, “come down here.”

“Uh-- I. I don’t.” Patrick stutters out. “I thought choir--”

“Choir got cancelled.” O’Marra says. “Someone broke Cornelison’s wards last night, he had to leave early.”

Patrick sucks in a breath; that’s not something he’d wish on anyone. “Oh.”

“Stay.” Jonathan says, smiling this time. “You have time, right?”

“Yeah, I-- I do.” Patrick says, navigating the stairs down to the stage. He drops his bag and coat close to their pile, loosening his tie as he climbs up on the stage.

O’Marra scoots sideways, making enough room for Patrick to sit down. He looks at Oshie, who is frowning at the papers, face scrunched up. “Anytime now, Osh.”

“This is hard, okay.”

“It’s really not.” O’Marra says. “You pick one and--”

“Just shut up.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes at Patrick. “They always do this.”

“Like you’re any better.” Oshie says, slapping the back of hand against Jonathan’s arm. “Freaky dictator.”

“Just pick one!”

“So--” Patrick clears his throat. “What _are_ you doing?”

They all exchange a look, and Oshie grins. “Put the guitar away, Jonny.”

Jonathan grumbles something inaudible but he carefully puts the guitar down next to him. “I can--”

“He sucks.” Oshie offers, grinning conspiratorily - he looks so stupid - at Patrick.

“I’m learning!”

“You suck.” Oshie says as he straightens up, “you just don’t know when it’s time to quit.”

“Yeah.” O’Marra snorts, and then he starts strumming out a few chords until he finds the rhythm of whatever song they’re going to do.

Patrick recognizes the song right away, he’s heard it playing on the radio now and again.

Much to his surprise Oshie takes the lead while drumming out the beat on the top of his thighs. His voice is strong, with just right amount of roughness, fitting perfectly with the lyrics.

Jonathan joins in as Oshie hits the chorus, and his voice-- Patrick swallows, hands clenching into fists. He knows that all of them are good; they wouldn’t be in choir otherwise, getting their fair share of solos, but Jonathan makes Oshie sound a hundred times better, yet he never overpowers him. He’s spot on, putting much more emotions into it than Oshie, and Patrick doesn’t think this song could sound any better than this. And Jonathan is-- he’s so beautiful, just like this.

O’Marra catches his eye halfway through the second verse; looking like he knows, like he knows that Patrick is currently falling a bit more for Jonathan who looks so ridiculous with his black eye and swollen lip, tie nearly coming undone and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.

Their eyes meet looking at Jonathan. O’Marra looks-- not angry or like he’s about to make fun of Patrick, but sad. Patrick doesn’t know what’s worse; that O’Marra knows or that he possibly feels the same way Patrick does.

 

“That,” Patrick says as soon as they’ve finished, “was amazing.”

“It was okay,” Jonathan shrugs, laughing when Oshie groans. “Next one.”

 

By some cruel twist of fate Patrick ends up alone in the auditorium with Jonathan, Oshie and O’Marra leave to catch the bus back to their neighborhood. But it’s somehow easier after they’ve been messing around for an hour, and Patrick wishes it’d be like this more often, easy and comfortable.

Jonathan is plucking out random chords on the guitar, humming under his breath.

Patrick can’t help but laughing when he messes up the same chord progression for the fourth time. “Guess Oshie was right after all.”

“Shup up.” Jonathan says, trying again just to prove he can. He does get it right this time even though it’s painstakingly slow. “See?”

“Brilliant.” Patrick says, “so proud.”

“Yeah.” Jonathan rolls his eyes. “I can tell.”

Patrick sticks his tongue out at him and before he can say anything else Jonathan leans forward, turning the guitar around and arranging it in Patrick’s lap. “I don’t--”

Jonathan kisses him. On the mouth.

Patrick freezes.

Jonathan’s puff of breath feels too hot against his skin when he moves away. “Hey.”

“I don’t--” Patrick bites his lip because he can’t finish that sentence without admitting that he has no idea what to do because no one ever kissed him, and he’s never kissed anyone before because he’s got to be careful because he’s a mutant even though he’s only low-level but he’s seen people’s reactions to when they find out that Abby’s a mutant and that Sharpy actually married her, and he doesn’t want that for anyone even though their opinion doesn’t mean shit. That’s what Sharpy and Abby told him and he trusts them but-- _Jonathan_. “I don’t.”

Jonathan’s smiling, and it’s not that soft smile that Patrick knows so well by now. No, it’s hopeful. That’s the only word for it. And Patrick can only smile back, even though it’s shaky.

Jonathan takes the guitar from his lap, putting down onto the ground beside them, shuffling closer to Patrick until he has to lean back onto his hands. “Can I try again?”

Patrick nods dumbly. “Yeah.”

Jonathan’s smile is the best thing, it really is.

Patrick’s prepared this time, well, as prepared as he can be. Jonathan doesn’t rush in, just presses their lips together, moving slowly against Patrick’s. And it’s nice. It’s really nice, Patrick thinks absently.

Jonathan’s hand moves up, fingertips traveling up Patrick’s arm and over his shoulder and the side of his neck, until he finally settles on the back of Patrick’s neck.

Patrick sighs, smiling into their kiss.

“Better?” Jonathan asks, still close, his hand on Patrick’s neck like an anchor. His fingers draw tiny little circles on Patrick’s skin.

He’s so calm; no rush, no urgency when all Patrick can feel is his blood roaring in his ears.

This is so much more than Patrick ever hoped for. It’s more than he can have, he knows that. He’ll have to declare himself this November, and he’ll-- he can’t. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. So stupid.

“I have to go.” Patrick says, stumbling to his feet.

If Jonathan says anything, Patrick doesn’t hear it. He just grabs his coat and bag, and doesn’t turn around when he heads up the stairs and Jonathan doesn’t come after him.

It’s better this way.

No regrets.

~

When Patrick’s making dinner that night, Jacquie joins him the kitchen. She leans against him, watching him stir the fried potatoes for a while.

There’s a plate of pickled vegetables already prepared on the counter and Jacquie sneaks a green bean before she tucks herself against his side once more. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

Jacquie huffs. “Yeah.”

Patrick focuses on the potatoes because they have be right.

“Something happened,” she says, “and now you’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

“If you’re upset about Sawley, you have to let it go. You know you can’t get detention and--”

Patrick looks at her, eyes narrowing. “Okay, would someone tell what on earth he said--”

“I didn’t hear it but,” Jacquie shrugs, “he got really mad and Toews just started punching him and then his brother got there. He broke them apart real quick.”

“That’s all?” Patrick asks after a minute of mulling it over.

“David said that Jonathan shouldn’t fight because he’s bad at it.”

Patrick doesn’t like her use of their first names, it’s too familiar. Not to mention dangerous and stupid. “But what did Sawley say?”

Jacquie shakes her head. “You’ll get mad.”

“But--”

“Just let it go,” she says quietly. “And I won’t ask you what makes you so look so sad tonight either.”

Patrick sighs heavily and goes back to stirring the potatoes. He can’t really turn that offer down.

~

The next day Jonathan acts like nothing happened.

Patrick’s grateful, in a way. But also hurt, if he’s honest with himself.

But this is what he wants, after all. And Jonathan seems to get it.

 

~&~

 

As soon as Patrick steps onto the driveway of the Sharp’s house, he can feel the soft thrum of strong wards surrounding it, stronger than anything he’s come across in his life. Not even the local office is this heavily warded. And if that wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the sleek black car with the Montreal license plate parked in front of the garage definitely is.

Abby had called early this morning, telling Patrick to come over right after school. Which meant he bummed around the library and did his homework, until Jessie was done with orchestra practice, Erica’s meeting with the student council was over, and Jacquie’s science club finished.

“Drive carefully.” Patrick says to Erica, watching as she buckles herself in and adjusts the mirrors. “It’s icy--”

She rolls her eyes at him, “you kept a running commentary on every stretch of road we were on.”

“Text me when you’re home!” Patrick shouts over the engine, waiting until she has backed out of the driveway and the car's around the corner.

When he turns around, Abby’s standing in the doorway, wrapped up in a bulky cardigan.

“You’re such a mother hen.” She says, opening her arms to hug him.

“Driving’s horrible today,” Patrick says, “Erica just got her license. Like a month ago.”

“I know.” Abby ushers him inside. “Come on, there’s lemon tarte tatin from First Line.”

Patrick can’t suppress his snort. “And you’re sharing?”

“Maybe.”

The house is warm, welcoming, and smelling of spices and chocolate. It’s one of Patrick’s favourite places in the world. It feels like coming home whenever he’s visiting them.

When he follows Abby into the living room, he doesn’t know what to expect. He did his research of course, he pays attention in school, he knows just what it means when someone is a Supreme Witch or Warlock, but that couldn’t have prepared him for the man rolling around the floor with Shooter. He can’t be that much older than Patrick, and he can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.

The sound of Abby patting the spot next to her on the couch is enough for Shooter to abandon even the best playmate, and Patrick takes the moment to step closer and offer him a hand up.

“Thanks.” He says, his eyes sparkling almost unnaturally. “Corey Crawford.”

“Patrick Kane.”

Crawford doesn’t let go of his hand for another second and Patrick can feel the rush of magic. “Mutant, Level 3, possibly higher.”

“Level 2.” Patrick corrects.

“They’re wrong.” Crawford says, smiling almost self-deprecatingly. “You should get another appointment at your office, make sure that you’re classified true to your abilities.”

Patrick looks at Abby helplessly, who just shrugs as if to say ‘what can you do?’.

“Your wards are good.” Which, Patrick is talking to the Supreme Warlock of Montreal, saying that his wards are good would be like pointing out that the sun rises.

“Thanks.” Crawford says earnestly, and then looks directly at Abby, “there’s much that needs protection.”

 

Abby does share the lemon tarte tatin, and Patrick can totally see the point of not sharing at all. They discuss the impact the amendment could have, and it’s interesting to hear from someone from the other side of the Falls, as well as the possibility of it becoming a public vote.

The current surge of malicious curses throughout the Lake Huron area Patrick had only heard about in passing sounds grave when Crawford talks about the failing efforts to get a handle on the situation. He polishes off a third slice of the tarte, listening carefully, and realizes that Crawford’s influence spreads _much_ further than he’d assumed from his research. But it makes sense that a warlock wouldn’t want to draw more attention to himself than necessary.

There’s hot chocolate with cream too, which Patrick chokes on when Abby casually mentions that Jonathan himself delivered the tarte earlier this afternoon.

Abby continues undeterred. “He asked about you, you know.”

Patrick’s still coughing, eyes watering but he manages to get out a weak, “what?”

“He seems genuinely concerned, if you ask me.”

Crawford looks mildly amused. “Someone of interest?”

“No.” Patrick says before Abby can continue to wreak havoc on his life. She’s worse than Sharpy some days.

Thankfully Crawford jumps in, telling them about a coven in Trois-Rivières that tried to drive the local fae family out of the ward business with less than legal methods, and how the Fae kept the coven’s house covered in a sheet of ice for the whole year until a truce was reached.

 

It’s late when Patrick leaves, Sharpy’s been back from his shift for a while, and it’s getting close to midnight. He’s armed with new knowledge about curses and how to identify them, as well as a ward that’s a lot stronger and durable than what is available on the free market for his family’s home.

Sharpy drops him off back home, idling by the curb until Patrick’s safe inside.

 

~&~

 

After a particularly exhausting patrol Patrick heads to First Line without really thinking about that it means facing Jonathan.

But at this point he is way past caring. He’s an adult, he can handle this, he’s been nothing but distant and polite at school, though avoidance is easier when Jonathan isn’t serving him tea.

What Patrick needs right now though, are a few cups of tea and a slice of chocolate cake.

He’d been walking the Northern city limits all night; he talked to the older were that’s been passing through every few months, gossiped with a pair of truckers at the gas station, and tried to come up with a master plan to employ his new curse knowledge on Mr. Marks in a way that won’t get him killed.

Sharpy hadn’t been on duty tonight but he came across two curse-breakers he recognized from the diner. They hadn’t said anything about him being out alone at night so he suspected they had an idea that he wasn’t normal.

It had been snowing all night and it takes him way too long to clear his car but it warms him up even though his boots are definitely letting water in. It’s a thing that angers him more than anything; he’s well aware that he can’t ask his parents to replace them and he doesn’t have the money either. The monthly compensation he gets from the local office barely covers the cost of gas as it is.

When he arrives at First Line Jonathan’s clearing the parking lot from snow, bundled up in a red parka that’s too big on him.

Patrick parks and gets out, nearly slipping on the ice. He yelps but manages to steady himself, arms windmilling for a too long moment.

“You alright?” Jonathan calls over. “I’ll put down sand in a bit.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Patrick clears his throat. “I’m fine. You’re on duty?”

Jonathan nods and continues shoveling. “David injured his shoulder during practice.”

“Oh, yeah.” Patrick says, of course he knows. There had been some serious discussions about their chances in the meet next week when it happened. Not that Patrick has time for school rivalries or anything, but Sam is on the team too so he is a fan by default.

“Brandon claims there are bagel-related issues.”

Patrick has to grin when Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Best bagels in town.”

“He never has issues in the kitchen unless there’s a foot of snow to clear.” Jonathan says, frowning. “We’re not open yet.”

“I know.” Patrick says, trying to turtle deeper into his coat. He stripped the protective armour earlier and it shows. It’s way too cold and he’s way too tired. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Jonathan nods and goes back to clearing the snow away. He looks tired; in the way that Patrick knows by heart.

“I’m sorry.” Patrick blurts out when Jonathan walks towards him, scattering handfuls of sand over the lot, not even aware that he was about to apologize.

Jonathan nearly drops the bucket, staring at him.

“For-- you know,” Patrick waves between them, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

It’s so low that Patrick has trouble catching it. “Okay.”

Jonathan nods once more, picking up the snow shovel and stomping his feet a few times to clear his boots. “Come on, I’ll get you your tea.”

Patrick follows him inside, and it’s warm and smelling delicious and spicy. He sits down at the far booth again, purely out of habit. He lifts a hand to greet David, who is refilling napkin dispensers and sugar bowls behind the counter, tongue poking out between his teeth as he tries to do so with just his left hand.

“You’re early.”

Patrick shrugs. “I am hungry.”

“The usual?” He asks, barely waiting on Patrick to confirm it with a nod. “I’ll tell Brandon to get started.”

“Thanks.”

David grins, leaning over to shout the order through the kitchen window, breaking up the snow-related argument Bollig and Jonathan were having.

A minute later Jonathan returns, cheeks furiously red, with a large mug of tea. He sets it down carefully in front of Patrick and then he sits down himself.

Patrick clears his throat because this is new. And strange. Jonathan has never shown any inclination to-- but he kissed Patrick so. And it’s pretty quiet, and Patrick’s the only customer so far.

“Sunday’s always slow.” Jonathan says. “Drink your tea.”

Patrick obeys, lifting the mug to his lips. It’s almost too hot to touch, stinging his cold hands.

“I need to apologize too.” Jonathan’s brow furrows for a second. “I shouldn’t have--”

“It’s alright.” Patrick mutters because he’s pretty sure David just turned the music down and there’s barely any noise coming from the kitchen.

Jonathan nods once, “okay.”

“Thanks for sticking up for my sisters.” Patrick says, looking up from his hands. His face feels like it’s on fire. “They won’t tell me what happened but-- thanks.”

“It wasn’t--” Jonathan starts, then he takes a deep breath. “Sawley had it coming.”

“And you got detention.”

Jonathan shrugs. “David was there too, it wasn’t so bad.”

“Hash browns will be right up.” David says, putting down a plate loaded with waffles and bacon in front of Patrick. “Jonny, if you’d have a moment, Brandon needs to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Now.” David says. “There’s a problem. Maybe.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “What is it?”

“I think it’ll be better when you see for yourself.”

Jonathan looks at Patrick, forcing out a smile. “Always something when our parents are gone.”

“They’re visiting our aunt.” David supplies, tapping Jonathan’s shoulder. “Go.”

Patrick nods dumbly and wonders why on earth Jonathan and David would tell him such vital information. It’s not like he’d betray them like this but still, it’s not something you’d tell people.

David sits down, grinning in a way that deeply concerning. “Eat.”

Patrick sighs, cutting through the waffles. “Stop bullying me into eating.”

“Jonny’s busy.”

Patrick wants reply but his mouth is full of waffle goodness, and there’s a crash from the kitchen, followed by barking and shouting.

Everything in Patrick goes cold when Rush rounds the corner and scrambles towards him, followed by Bollig and Jonathan. Shaw would never leave her behind, and Rush never left Shaw’s side. Never.

“You know that dog?”

Patrick nods dumbly, taking a piece of bacon from his plate. He keeps his voice low and gentle, talking to her in the way Shaw did. “Hey girl. What you’re doing here?”

“She was out on the alley, going through the trash.” Bollig says, “she’s filthy.”

Patrick has to agree. He holds out the bacon to Rush, trying to get a hold on her collar. “I know the owner. They’d never leave her.”

“It looks like it though.” Jonathan mutters.

And Patrick gets it; there’s a strange, dirty dog in their diner. She could carry a curse or worse.

“You don’t understand.” He says, sharper than planned. “She’s everything to them.”

“What’s their dog doing here then?”

“I don’t know!”

“She can’t stay here.”

“I can’t take her home either.” Patrick says, rubbing over her head gently. His hands come away feeling icky.

“She can’t stay here.” Jonathan repeats, glancing at the door as if customers will be storming the diner any second when there’s not even cars on the road.

David returns with a bowl of water, setting it down on the floor. “She’s probably dehydrated,” he says when Jonathan’s about to speak. “What’s her name?”

“Her name’s Rush.”

“She’s massive.”

Rush growls and Patrick has to laugh, because he had the exact same conversation with Shaw the first time around. “Don’t insult her, she’s a lady.”

“And she can’t stay here.”

Patrick sighs, and gives up another piece of bacon. “I know that.”

He knows what he has to do though; first he’ll call Shaw and after that he’ll call Abby, and if that doesn’t work out, Savvy as a last resort. But he knows that Shaw’s number will be disconnected and there’ll be no trace left to follow. Savvy will shout at him and threaten to drop his case a dozen times, and maybe, after this, he actually will. Maybe he should just call Abby right away.

“What are you going to do?”

“Honestly?” Patrick asks. “I don’t know, okay? I just don’t know.”

 

With about two plates of waffles and bacon Patrick manages to coax Rush into the back of the car, and she settles down on the blanket of plastic bags Bollig had taped together with a loud sigh.

When Patrick gets his wallet out to pay for the food, Jonathan shakes his head. “It’s alright.”

“Thanks.”

~

When Sharpy opens the door, bleary-eyed and yawning, he takes one look at Patrick and waves him inside. “Put the kettle on. I’ll wake Abby.”

Patrick’s just taking the tea pot out when Abby walks into the kitchen, wrapping a fluffy grey bathrobe around herself.

“I’m sorry.”

Abby sighs and sinks into the closest chair. “I know.”

Patrick pours water into the pot, and sets a cup down in front of her, already with a spoon of honey inside. It’s a herbal tea, heavy on the peppermint, and it’s the only thing Abby can even remotely stand in the morning.

“What happened?”

Patrick fumbles with his own cup. “Rush was roaming the dumpsters behind First Line this morning.”

Abby raises her eyebrows at him. “Shaw wouldn’t do that.”

“Shaw’s gone.”

“Where’s Rush?”

Patrick rubs a hand over his eyes. “In my car, hopefully not dismantling the interior.”

“Patrick!” Abby shouts, holding out a hand towards Patrick, “you. Keys.”

Sharpy appears in the kitchen doorway, grinning, “you yelled, my love.”

“Let Rush out of Pat’s car, please.” She tosses the keys at Sharpy.

Sharpy’s face falls. “What happened? Where’s Shaw?”

Patrick shrugs. “I don’t know. Shaw’s gone.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Sharpy says and walks out into the hallway. “Abby? Keep Shooter with you, please.”

Abby whistles, and Shooter comes barreling down the hallway and into the kitchen. He runs right into Patrick’s legs, demanding to be petted.

“He’s the only one looking halfway awake.” Patrick comments, crouching down to give Shooter a thorough cuddle.

“We had a long night,” Abby says. “You look tired too.”

“I am.”

“How’s school?”

Patrick makes a noise that makes Shooter jump up and lick at his chin. He laughs and lets it happen. It’s mostly slobber but Abby’s laughing too, soft and happy.

“Shouldn’t we check on your husband?”

Abby waves a hand. “He’ll be fine. Never met a dog that didn’t like him.”

“Rush’s different.”

“She didn’t maul you while you were driving here.”

“Yeah.” Patrick gently pushes Shooter back down. “Savvy called last week, reminded me to not fail English this year.”

“He’s only doing his job.” Abby says but she understands the frustration in Patrick’s tone better than anyone else.

“Jonathan kissed me. Last week.”

Abby stares at him, like she can’t believe what just happened. And honestly, neither can Patrick.

“O’Marra knows.” Patrick continues because why not spill it all. “Because he likes him too, I think.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Yeah.”

Abby gets up, hugging Patrick tightly. “But he kissed you.”

“Yeah.”

“Any good?”

Patrick shrugs. “I suppose.”

Abby laughs, swatting his shoulder. “You’ll get better.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

~

As it turns out, Sharpy does know someone who’ll be able to help out for the time being, and an hour later a cursebreaker shows up to take Rush back to their place.

She whines when she’s locked into the transport box, licking Patrick’s finger through the bars.

“It’ll be alright, girl.” He says, “I promise. I’ll come and visit.”

~

When Patrick comes home, he’s in a world of trouble.

The shouting and disappointed looks wash over him. He’s too tired to care.

By the time he makes it up his room, he’s almost asleep.

 

~&~

 

Unexpectedly, Monday isn’t as much of a disaster as Patrick had anticipated.

Sam clearly knows a couple of important things have happened but he doesn’t ask Patrick about it. He also takes the fact that Jonathan waits for Patrick in the mornings, walking to their lockers with them before heading to Physics, in silence. Well, he looks like he wants to say something but settles on pulling ridiculous faces at Patrick while they’re heading to English.

“Is this going to be a thing?” He asks during lunch on Tuesday.

Patrick stares at the burned hamburger pattie on his tray. “I don’t--”

“You don’t know,” Sam interrupts, looking insufferably smug. “But you hope so.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Sam covers his own pattie with the contents of three ketchup packets. “At least he hasn’t brought Oshie and O’Marra along. Yet.”

Patrick turns halfway, catching a look of Jonathan sitting with Oshie and O’Marra as always. “I guess.”

“Be more gloom and doom, I dare you.”

“I’m not--” Patrick sighs. “You know I can’t--”

“Okay,” Sam slams the bun onto the pattie, glaring at Patrick. “It’s not like he’s kissing you hello in front-- what happened?!”

Patrick ducks his head.

“Kane.” Sam says seriously. “Speak up because I can’t hear a damn word.”

“Jonathan and I-- we--”

“I got that!” Sam chucks an empty ketchup packet at him and misses. “When?”

“Last week?” Patrick mumbles, “he kissed me and then-- I left because. Because I can’t. I won’t do this to him.”

Sam shakes his head. “Maybe that’s his choice, and not yours.”

“There shouldn’t be a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” Sam snorts. “You know I’m right. Anything else I should be aware of?”

So Patrick starts talking. Sam throws the other ketchup packets at him too, and the empty pudding container. But he messes up Patrick’s hair when they’re walking out of the cafeteria and to Math so Patrick thinks he’s forgiven.

 

~&~

 

“You’re late!”

Patrick’s not even through the door of the auditorium. This isn’t an agreement they have, it’s not even a date. This is Patrick sneaking into choir practice because he misses it so much some days. “I’m not!”

Jonathan’s alone this time, guitar perched on his lap and papers spread out in front of him. “They’re busy.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Ryan was suspended this morning and T.J.’s tutoring Chemistry.”

Patrick lets his backpack drop onto the floor, working to get his coat and scarf off. “He what?”

“Chemistry, he tutors--”

“Not Oshie,” Patrick says, “O’Marra.”

“You should call them by their given names.”

“They’re not my friends.”

“But you-- you’re--” Jonathan glares at him. “You should call them by their given names.”

Patrick chooses to ignore all of that. “Choir cancelled again?”

“Cornelison’s sick.” Jonathan says with a sigh. “Can’t catch a break lately.”

“Yeah.” Patrick frowns. “What did O’Marra do to get suspended?”

“No idea.” Jonathan shrugs, “he wouldn’t tell me. T.J. wasn’t around either when it happened so--”

“That’s weird.”

Jonathan clears his throat, pushing the sheets closer to Patrick. “Pick one.”

“And watch you slaughter every single one of them?” Patrick asks, but he looks through them anyway. “Anything you practiced in secret so you can surprise me?”

Jonathan glares again. “Like that would work.”

Patrick huffs, picking the edges of the sheets. “It’s better this way--”

“What?”

“It’s better--,” Patrick drops his hands into his lap. Why can’t he keep his mouth shut for once?

“Patrick.” Jonathan says.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Patrick rubs his hands over his thighs. His shirt feels itchy on his skin, the tie’s too tight.

Jonathan’s too close. “You’re the only one who seems to think so.”

“What?”

Jonathan licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “Gagner gave me the speech today.”

Patrick stares at him, vaguely aware that his mouth is open but he can’t seem to close it.

“He also said that you’d say that, in some way or the other.” Jonathan says, calm as if they’d discussing the weather. “Now pick a song.”

Patrick hands over the first piece of paper he can reach.

Jonathan starts playing the intro, and he’s slow and careful like always but he doesn’t make any glaring mistakes either, at least not any that Patrick can pick up on.

It sounds familiar too, but Patrick has no idea where he had heard it before. Jonathan sings beautifully, and Patrick lets himself sink into his voice and the lyrics.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Patrick whispers when Jonathan plucks his way through the bridge.

“Shut up and listen.”

Patrick does as he’s told and finds himself mouthing along with the chorus, getting a brilliant smile from Jonathan in return.

They go through a few more songs until it’s time for them to leave. Jonathan doesn’t try to kiss him again, and it’s okay, like this.

Patrick can live with that.

~

Sam looks disappointed when Jonathan isn’t waiting for Patrick the next morning. “What happened?”

“Apparently you talked to him.” Patrick says, not in the mood to deal with any of this. He slipped during last night's patrol and it aggravated his ribs again, and the pain that had been only low and lingering for a while now flared up to all its former glory. “You can talk to him again.”

“Is this about Sawley?”

“What has Sawley to do with any of this?” Patrick asks, putting his hand on his ribs and tries to find a less painful way to carry his backpack.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“You really--” Sam claps a hand over his mouth.

“What about Sawley?”

“You should talk to Toews.” Sam says instead.

“That isn’t an answer!”

Sam takes his backpack from him, giving a long, concerned look. “You should really talk to Toews.”

That’s all Sam will say on the matter and Patrick decides to _not care_.

He has English to worry about, how to pay for new boots, and if Shaw might return this week or not. He hopes he will, because he hated leaving Rush the time he dropped by to pay her a visit. According to the Bickells she’s been despondent and not eating properly, and Patrick doesn’t want her to be miserable too, no matter how much she misses Shaw, and promised to come by more often.

~

All of Patrick’s plans go out of the window though.

Next thing he knows is that he’s pushing Sawley so hard into the lockers he can see the dents forming in the metal in slow motion. There’s a crowd gathering and they’re cheering them on like it’s a good thing that Patrick can feel the blood rushing in his head and that there are sparks dancing in his eyes. And he can picture it; pushing Sawley into the scraps, through it and against the wall, until he’s twisted and red with blood.

Sawley’s grinning madly at him, like he’s going to hurt Patrick just as viciously. He’s shouting at Patrick, snarling out those words. And everyone around them can hear and they don’t-- they don’t care. They don’t care at all.

Patrick yells at him to shut up, to stop lying.

Sawley laughs, sinks against the locker with a wince because there are indeed dents in the locker-doors.

And then there’s Sam between them, wrestling Patrick away from it all. Past the shocked faces of his sisters and Patrick wants to cry because he just screwed everything up and it’s going to be hell for them too and he’s so fucking sorry.

Sam pushes them into the nearest washroom, and then they’re alone. “Patrick,” he says, out of breath. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t--” Patrick starts, and his ribs ache, heart beating to fast in his chest. “Is it true?”

Sam looks at him, and sighs heavily.

“The things he said about Jonathan.”

“Patrick.”

“Is it true?”

Sam bites his lip, “yeah.”

“But-- how? Why?” Patrick asks and his voice wavers and his eyes sting. “He wouldn’t.”

Sam’s silent for a too long time, and somehow it makes it worse

“He wouldn’t.”

“There’s been rumors, locker room talk about him being-- I didn’t pay attention to it because it’s Sawley.” Sam whispers, taking a slow step forward. “It was just Sawley saying dumb shit.”

“It’s not--”

Sam lays a hand on his shoulder, careful and gentle. “We have to get to class.”

Patrick stares at him wide-eyed. “Sammy.”

“Shit, Patrick.” Sam says and wraps his arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Patrick doesn’t talk to Jonathan, won’t even look at him afterwards.

The whole school is talking in hushed whispers about how the older Toews is sucking dick like it’s an official subject, and when Jonathan does try to get to Patrick, Sam shouts at him until David pulls Jonathan away.

Patrick should really think of Jonathan as Toews again. He really should.

 

For the rest of the week Patrick gets suspended because of the fight with Sawley.

Dr. Richels yells at him for what feels like an hour but she also backhandedly commends him on standing up for Toews.

His parents are furious.

Savvy comes by the next day, and Patrick gets the speech about how he disappointed everyone for the third time.

Sam’s still pissed off, Patrick can tell, but he collects everything Patrick’s missing this week and drops by after school each day. He apologizes too, for not telling him sooner, but Patrick gets why he didn’t. He’s not mad or anything. It just hurts.

~

On Thursday night he sneaks out and heads to Abby. He’s grounded from patrol until his suspension is over but Abby hasn’t called him yet and he really needs to talk to her.

When he arrives at their house he’s greeted by an exhausted looking Sharpy who just gives him a halfway hug and then pushes him into the kitchen.

Abby’s sitting at the table, a glass of water in front of her. She looks up at him, giving him a tired smile. "Hey you.”

“Hi.” Patrick says, and tries to return the smile to his best ability. “Are you alright?”

“Just a long week.”

Sharpy lets out a long breath behind him and Patrick sits down in what has become his chair over the years.

“She’s not doing so well.” Sharpy says, picking up the kettle and filling it with water. “Our baby’s a mutant too and it’s messing her up.”

Patrick’s stumped momentarily but it’s next to impossible that someone as powerful as Abby would not pass on some of her abilities. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Just dizzy, a lot.” Abby waves a hand.

“She passed out a few times.”

Patrick gasps and reaches out for her hand. “Abby.”

“It’ll be fine.” She says, putting her free hand on her stomach and it’s joined by Sharpy’s hand not a moment later. “Just until me and her get our differences sorted out.”

“Her?”

Sharpy’s entire face lights up. “Yes, her.”

Patrick’s lost for words, but he feels so happy for them it outshines everything else that’s been going on.

“We didn’t want to worry you.” Sharpy says as he moves away from Abby to prepare a mug for Patrick. “How are you?”

“Better.” Patrick says and he means it. “School’s been shit, Shaw’s gone still, and Savvy came over to read me the riot act.”

“Which one was it?”

“Number four, I think.” Patrick sighs. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“He only digs that out every other year, you should feel honored.”

Patrick gives Abby his most dubious look. “Right.”

“Listen to my brilliant stubborn wife,” Sharpy says as he sets the mug - chamomile with at least a spoon of honey - down in front of Patrick. “So what happened to Toews?”

“What?”

“I went to First Line with a few curse-breakers yesterday and Toews looks like he’s ready to drop off the face of the earth. Little Toews was ignoring him too.”

Patrick drops his eyes. “School’s shit.”

“You said that, yes.” Sharpy sits down next to Abby. “Elaborate.”

“Just--” Patrick makes a gesture somewhere caught between a wave and shrug. “I got into a fight with Sawley. Over Toews.”

“Jonathan.” Sharpy says.

“Yeah.”

Sharpy sighs, cutting off whatever Abby’s about to say. “How bad was it?”

“I dented a few lockers.” Patrick admits. “I wanted to hurt Sawley. Like, actually hurt him.”

“Because he did what?” Abby asks and she sounds concerned, worried even. “Patrick?”

Patrick rubs a hand over his eyes because it hurts just thinking about it, and there’s this ugly feeling inside his chest, viciously clawing at his lungs. “He said things about Toews and-- it’s true.”

“What kind of things?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Is that why you’re calling him Toews?” Abby asks with a pointed look, “you haven’t called him that since I took you to First Line two years ago.”

Patrick shrugs. “I’m-- trying to get some distance.”

Sharpy doesn’t manage to suppress his snort. “Yeah.”

“It’s not that simple.” Patrick says, glaring at Sharpy.

“It doesn’t have to be complicated.” Abby says gently.

Patrick sighs. “I know.”

“Whatever he’s done, he’s still Jonathan.” She says, smiling at him. “You shouldn’t cut him out. From what Patrick told me, it looks like he needs his friends now.”

Sharpy nods in agreement, “so what are you going to do, Peeks?”

~

Patrick doesn’t do anything, really.

If anything, things go back to his warped version of normal. He goes back on patrol as soon as his detention is over, he studies whenever he can, he spends time with his sisters and Sam. He visits Abby when he has time, and meets up with Sharpy at First Line after his night shift.

He ignores Sawley, sneaks into choir practice, and tries one of the less dangerous curse-revealing rituals Crawford had told him about. It doesn’t really work and he almost gets caught.

Jonathan’s having a hard time with the fall-out of it all, but there’s either David or Oshie sticking to his side; though Sam says that this hasn’t been the case while Patrick had detention.

But Jonathan waits it out, takes the gossip and the sneers, stoic and seemingly unmoved by it.

 

Patrick waits for him after Pol Sci a few days later, hovering by the door until Jonathan’s done with packing his things up. “You up for lunch?”

“Uh--” Jonathan stops, clears his throat. “Yeah, sure.”

“Come on, Sam’s usually early.” Patrick says, nudging his side, “and he gets pissy if he has to wait too long.”

Jonathan follows him through the corridors and into the cafeteria without another word, trailing behind Patrick as they get their food and head towards their table.

Sam looks bewildered for about a second before turning to Jonathan. “Is Oshie coming too?”

Jonathan looks around the cafeteria before answering. “I-- I don’t know.”

“I’ll get another chair.”

Patrick nods dumbly at Sam and sits down, “sit down, I’ll keep an eye out for Oshie.”

“He always takes ages on Wednesdays.” Jonathan supplies, mostly mumbling into his food. “History’s not really something he’s good at.”

Patrick nods, filing that information away. “O’Marra’s still suspended?”

“I don’t know.” Jonathan shrugs. “I tried to talk to Richels and she wouldn’t tell me anything. I go to his house every day, I talked to the neighbours but they don’t know nothing.”

Sam returns, pilfered chair and a confused looking Oshie in tow. “Where’s O’Marra?”

“Now that’s a good question.” Oshie says unhelpfully. “You okay, Jonny?”

“Yeah.” Jonathan nods once, and goes back to his lunch.

“No seriously,” Sam says, “it gives me the creeps to see you two without O’Marra. It’s weird--”

“And your perpetual codependency with Kane--”

“Leave it, T.J.,” Jonathan mutters under his breath.

“Anyway, Sam.” Patrick clears his throat as he takes a stab at the sad-looking piece of cauliflower on his tray. “How was Econ?”

“Still getting dragged through the ward economics of the Civil Wars,” Sam rolls his eyes. “At least we’re finished with the third one.”

“There were six.” Oshie smirks. “You know that, right?”

“Eight, when you count the Chicago Mutant Riots in 1986 and the Michigan Clan Disputes of 1998.” Jonathan says, “and Emerson says we should, everything else would be neglecting the--”

“Shut up with your Pol Sci shit.” Oshie says, but he’s laughing. “Please tell me he’s not like this in class. All condescension and righteousness.”

Patrick shrugs. “He’s right though.”

“He only gives a shit because it’s a required class to get into curse-breaker training.” Oshie says, leaning over to take Jonathan’s piece of cauliflower. “You’re welcome.”

Sam makes a noise. “You actually eat that?”

“Yeah?” Oshie manages to enunciate around the chunk of cauliflower in his mouth.

“T.J. has no taste whatsoever.” Jonathan throws in, and he’s smiling even though it’s barely there.

“That’s why I’m your friend.”

Jonathan shrugs, “I’ve told you to leave but--”

“You love me.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Patrick can’t help but grin at their exchange. “So, you want to go into curse-breaking?”

“Dumbest idea he ever had, if you ask me.” T.J. says blithely.

“Nobody asked you.” Jonathan retorts, “I’m not going to serve coffee my whole life.”

“Because that would be so bad.”

Jonathan puts his fork down, “leave it, T.J.!”

Oshie huffs but continues eating, muttering something under his breath that neither Sam nor Patrick can make out, but must be familiar enough to make Jonathan tense up.

Patrick reaches out before he can stop himself, putting his hand on Jonathan’s thigh for a moment.

“Don’t encourage him, Kane.” Oshie says, pointing his fork at Patrick. “It makes him stupid.”

Patrick kicks at Sam’s shin as a preventive measure. “What about O’Marra?”

“What about him?” Oshie asks. “They’re gone.”

“Don’t say that!”

“What?”

Jonathan picks up his backpack and tray, “don’t say things like that,” and then he leaves.

Oshie sighs. “Sorry about that. Things’ve been shit lately.”

Patrick shares a look with Sam, and nods. “Yeah.”

Oshie takes a deep breath, gathers his things and goes after Jonathan.

 

~&~

 

It’s a few minutes before First Line opens in the morning when Sharpy walks in, greeting David with a quick wave and heading towards their booth.

“Special treatment, I see.”

Patrick’s already halfway through his waffles, so there’s no way he can deny it. “Jonathan let me in.”

“So now it’s Jonathan again.”

“Shut up,” Patrick says, “coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Sharpy mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “Can’t really stay, sorry.”

“Long night?"

“Bad night.” Sharpy says with a heavy sigh.

“Shaw?”

“And no sign of Shaw, I have a couple of people keeping an eye out but-- I don’t know Patrick, I don’t think Shaw’s coming back this time.”

“Don’t say that.” Patrick says, nearly choking on his food. “Shaw’d never leave Rush behind. Not ever.”

“You should try and find a place for her.” Sharpy says gently. “The Bickells can’t keep her much longer. Them taking in strays is barely legal, you know you are putting them in danger.”

“I know.”

“Think about it.” Sharpy stands up, “we’ll help but I have to think of my family first.”

“I know,” Patrick says. “Thanks, Sharpy.”

“Get home safe, and call Abby.” Sharpy says with a smile. “She got a message from Montreal this night, and it doesn’t allow her to talk to me about it. Not that I want to get involved with Warlocks anyway.”

“I can probably drop by sometime this afternoon, if that’s alright.”

“See you then.” Sharpy gives his shoulder a light squeeze and heads out.

Jonathan comes over after locking the door behind Sharpy again. “Everything okay? You look worried.”

“Yeah.” Patrick says quickly. “Just, a lot of things lately.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Jonathan looks as if he’s about to say something – anything – but then doesn’t and Patrick goes back to his waffles with partially fake gusto.

“Jonny!” David calls suddenly, unlocking the door again and letting in a gush of freezing cold air.

Patrick looks up at Jonathan’s gasp, and sees O’Marra standing there.

He’s rubbing his hands over his arms and shoulders, shaking off the snow when Jonathan all but tackles him into a tight hug.

O’Marra moves away after a long moment, and he’s slow to let go. He says a few hurried words to Jonathan and then walks towards Patrick. Jonathan doesn’t follow.

Patrick waits until he sits down, but he tightens the grip on his knife instinctively. “O’Marra.”

“Kane.” He says, taking a deep breath. “You’re a mutant.”

“What-“

O’Marra lets his eyes flash yellow for a split-second. Were.

“That’s new.” Patrick says, and that’s really all he can come up with.

“Very new.”

“Alright.”

“You’re awfully calm about this.”

Patrick shrugs, trying to keep his heart-beat under control. Even if O’Marra’s a new were, Patrick doesn’t really stand a chance against him. “Would you feel better if I freak out?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

At least, that is somewhat reassuring. Patrick exhales, bracing himself. He has to ask though. “You are leaving, aren’t you?”

O’Marra huffs, “I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

O’Marra’s eyes go yellow again. “I wish there was.”

Patrick nods, he won’t win this. “Where to? If I am allowed to ask.”

“West.” He says lowly, resigned. “To the mountains.”

That’s a lie, Patrick’s sure of it. Not that he knows anything about the were clans out by the mountains, they never went further than Michigan in History, and then it was only mentioned briefly.

“Someone I’ve never even heard of before dies in a dispute over some land rights that hasn’t been resolved for the last hundred years.” O’Marra says eventually. "So here I am."

He’s the only one left, all the others in line before him are either dead, too young or too old to fight. So they turned him. Patrick wants to scream.

“Do they know?”

“Does anyone that counts,” he says, half-glancing over his shoulder, “know about you?”

“No.” Patrick says, “though I wish that-“

“It’s better if they don’t-“

“They’re your friends!” Patrick presses out, and he’s angry and hurt on Jonathan’s behalf but it’s not his place. “Jonathan was looking for you! Every day.”

“T.J. told me, yelled at me mostly.” O’Marra’s smiles softly. “You look after him, yes? T.J. too.”

“You can’t just go and expect them to--”

“I have to.” O’Marra says. “That’s just the way it is.”

“Jonathan is not going to let you go like this!”

O’Marra shakes his head, gets up. “I have to go.”

“Ryan. Please,” Patrick says sharply, and then his voice breaks. “Don’t do this to him.”

O’Marra doesn’t look back, walks over to where Jonathan is standing with David. He hugs David before turning to Jonathan, and Patrick wants to disappear, give O’Marra some privacy but everyone’s looking at them; even Brandon’s out of the kitchen, hovering by the counter.

Whatever O’Marra says, it goes unheard, and then he just looks at Jonathan with so much love and affection, runs his hand over Jonathan’s neck and cradling the back of his head.

When he leans in, Patrick closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until he hears the door open and close.

 

Patrick leaves - pressing enough bills into David’s hand and shaking his head when he asks what O’Marra told him - in the midst of the first morning rush. He doesn’t know what to say to Jonathan; to make it hurt less, to make it less- just less. So he goes and feels worse for it.

~

Patrick helps out at home, putters around in the kitchen while his mum prepares lunches and dinners for the weekend, he offered to cook too but he’s delegated to peeling potatoes and cutting vegetables. He tackles part of his homework too, but nothing of it makes much sense, before he drives Jacquie to her friend’s birthday party.

~

Abby’s waiting for him, a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate cookies on the kitchen table. Shooter’s sleeping on his blanket in the corner, barely lifting his head to greet Patrick.

She pours them tea and gets right to the point. “Crawford sent a message.”

“Sharpy said, yeah.”

She sighs, taking a cookie. “There’s been some issues up by Lake Huron, and they’re looking for a shapeshifter.”

“What kind of issues?”

“He didn’t say.” Abby says, “but they’re looking for someone to string up for what happened.”

“And he thinks Shaw’s involved?”

“I think that Shaw was aware of whatever was going on and left while he still could.”

Patrick has to admit it makes sense, in a way. “But Shaw never left without Rush before.”

“She’s recognizable,” Abby says, “Shaw can change but she can’t. And you found her, didn’t you?”

“Rush’s smart.”

Abby nods. “We’ll find a way to keep her, I promise.”

“So Crawford sent you a message to warn him-- us?” Patrick asks. It’s a shapeshifter residing in Hamburg, it’s so far out of Crawford’s jurisdiction, what happens on this side of the Lakes shouldn’t even concern him. “Why?”

“I’m not going to ask him for his reasoning, I’m just glad he did,” Abby says. “You should go and see Rush.”

“Sharpy suggested the same.”

“Take Jonathan.”

Patrick stares at her, cookie half in his mouth. “Now why would I do that?”

Abby shrugs and takes another cookie. “Don’t you want to?”

 

~&~

 

To Patrick’s surprise Jonathan doesn’t protest much when Patrick says that they’re going to visit Rush. He says he has to study and that he wanted to check the diner’s storage but relents easily enough when Patrick says ‘please’ again.

 

The Bickells live outside of Hamburg, on an old farm surrounded by fields and woods. The drive out of town is a minor disaster with the falling snow and people seemingly forgetting how to navigate through it.

Jonathan’s quiet next to him, methodically turning his gloves in his hands.

“How are you?”

Jonathan shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“He’ll be fine--”

“He was saying good-bye.” Jonathan says quietly, “like in the War poems.”

Patrick reaches over and links their hands together. “I know.”

“What did he say to you?”

“That I should look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.”

Patrick sighs, pulling onto the path that leads to the farm. “We’re almost there.”

 

Jonathan’s apprehensive at first, but he warms up to Rush after a few minutes. She calmer with Jonathan somehow, leaning against his side and waits to be petted until Patrick throws a snowball for her to chase.

Rush is all over the place, playing in the snow, running circles around them as they head towards the edge of the woods on the far end of the field that Bickell pointed out to them.

They walk side by side in silence for a while, sharing a look every now and again.

“Why did you take me here?” Jonathan asks when they reach the trees.

There are snowflakes clinging to his lashes and brows, his cheeks are red from the wind and the cold.

Patrick shrugs. “Because I wanted to.”

Jonathan looks at him. “Can we stay for a bit?”

“Sure.” Patrick pulls his scarf up over his chin. “Let’s.”

Jonathan holds his hand to him, and Patrick takes off his glove to take it.

“Your hands are just like ice.”

“I left my gloves in the car.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Patrick asks, tucking Jonathan’s hand back into the pocket of his jacket.

“Just,” Jonathan takes Patrick’s hand again. “Just let me have this.”

 _You can always have this_ , Patrick thinks but doesn’t say it. Maybe some day, but not today. One day Patrick will tell Jonathan everything.

Jonathan looks out over the field, eyes fixed on nothing. His hand is still cold in Patrick’s. “Thank you.” He leans in, pressing a barely-there kiss onto the corner of Patrick’s mouth.

“You’re welcome.” Patrick says, smiling.

Jonathan tugs at his hand and starts walking, “come on.”

They follow along the tree line until the farm’s almost out of view. It’s quiet except for the wind and the ground underneath their feet, Rush walking next to them without straying more than a few feet away from them.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a lot of things are left open and unsolved, but the end felt right so I let them wander off into the distance.
> 
> Music (in order of appearance)  
> Leonard Cohen's If It Be Your Will  
> Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time  
> Dar Williams' Iowa (Traveling III)


End file.
